Poor Wilson! It was noted that this man never touched rum himself, but invariably gave his share to another.
The main-brace was spliced that night, and that, too, twice over. It happened to be Saturday night.
It could not be called Saturday-night-at-sea, but it was Saturday night on board a ship; and despite the fact that the vessel was but a wreck and a hulk, it was spent in the good old fashion.
An awning was always kept spread over the fore part of the ship, and it was under this that the crew smoked and yarned in the evenings.
To-night the officers had gone forward to hear Tom Wilson play.
He did make them laugh. I do not know that his pathetic pieces caused many tears to flow, beautifully executed though they were, but late in the evening—and ten o’clock was considered late on board the hulk—when Halcott asked for a favourite air of his, Tom hesitated for a moment, then took up the violin.
There was a beauty of expression and sadness about Tom’s interpretation of this beautiful melody that held everybody spell-bound; but when at last the poor fellow laid his instrument on the table, and with bent head burst into tears, the astonishment of every one there was great indeed.
Jack, however, is ever in sympathy with sorrow, and Chips, rough old Chips, got up and went round behind Tom Wilson.
“Come, matie,” he said, patting him gently on the shoulder. “What is it, old heart? Music been too much for you? Eh? Come, come, don’t give way.”
Tom Wilson threw back his head and lifted his face now.